


Spanish Lullabies

by fritz_winky



Series: The Companion Series [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Language Kink, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 01:05:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fritz_winky/pseuds/fritz_winky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during 01x03, "Commodities."  Aramis soothes Porthos the best way he knows how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spanish Lullabies

There is not much time left for them to waste.  They’re running out of time to deliver Bonnaire to Paris, and if the remainder of the journey proves to be as eventful as the first leg, then it’s all the better they get moving.  But there is the matter of Porthos to deal with, his ripped stitches, his anger, his feeling of betrayal.  Even Athos is too out of sorts to carry on, and it is with reluctance that Aramis decides for them all to wait a couple more hours yet.

 D’Artagnan is left to mind their prisoner while Athos seeks out whatever ghosts trouble his mind.  Aramis, left to tend to Porthos, guides him through the house until they come upon a small room, well away from provocations.  It is there that Aramis exhales a breath, letting his annoyance seep out of him in the face of a friend in need.

 It pains him to see Porthos in such a state.  The injury is one thing, but the blind rage that fills him now is very nearly heart wrenching.  Aramis has seen this man in fits many times before, has even goaded him on, or laughed at it, but this is different.  None of them have ever taken kindly to being blindsided.  In silence, Aramis prepares a needle to redo the stitches, and, in a way that unsettles Aramis, Porthos is equally silent as he removes his shirt.  The deed is done quickly.  Aramis runs his fingers gently along the line of his needlework, presses his forehead to Porthos’s back, and only then does he speak.

 “I am sorry, my friend,” he murmurs, his lips moving against Porthos’s clammy skin with his words.  “If only that I could soothe your heart and ease your mind.”

 Porthos snorts.  “It would soothe me to see him hanged,” he spits out, but he quiets when he feels the slighter man’s hand run along his arm. 

 “Justice comes to all men, if not in this lifetime, then under God himself.”  Aramis eases Porthos on to a dusty sofa, then sits beside him.  He continues to administer light touches, gentle and sympathetic.

 “I don’t need your talk of God and saints.”  Porthos shrugs Aramis away, hissing at the tension in his shoulder, but he feels his heart hammering less.  He closes his eyes against the world, blocking out even the man sitting next to him, his partner in crime and in justice, until he feels a pair of lips against his ear and the tickle of finely groomed facial hair.

 “When I was a boy,” continues Aramis, ever persistent, because he’s learned over the years how to deal with Porthos, “and I used to get into fits, my mother would tuck me up against her and sing me lullabies in her native tongue.”

 Porthos pushes away the thoughts in his mind to try and picture this.  He tries to imagine a young boy with wild hair and golden skin, wide dark eyes fired with passion that only children can manage.  He thinks about this boy in his little village on the border of France and Spain, and his mother, a Spanish woman long since married to a Frenchman.  He’s never heard a Spanish lullaby before, but he suspects they’re nice to listen to.

 “I don’t remember many of them now.  It’s been many years since I’ve been young enough for songs meant to soothe toddlers, but I recall some poems.”  Poems that Aramis had learned once to try and woo a girl or two, but he had liked them well enough to retain them in his memory.

 There’s an annoyed grunt from the darker skinned man, and Aramis laughs gently.  A grunt means _get on with it_.  Aramis is never one to disappoint.  He keeps his mouth close to Porthos’s ear, so his words never drift into the room, but stay between the two of them.  His hand finds Porthos’s and he brushes their fingers together before intertwining them.

 “ _Si para refrenar este deseo loco, imposible, vano, temeroso,_ ” he murmurs, tilting his head just slightly to brush his nose against the shell of Porthos’s ear, “ _y guarecer de un mal tan peligroso, que es darme a entender yo lo que no creo_.”

 Aramis can feel Porthos begin to relax.  The breathing slows and deepens, but the tension shifts to something else entirely, something that Aramis would never mistake, and he smiles knowingly as he moves to kneel on the floor.

 “ _No me aprovecha verme cual me veo._ ” Aramis is almost conversational, not like a man reciting verse at all, and Porthos shudders to think that underneath those beautifully lilted words there’s a confession being spoken to him.  Porthos watches as nimble fingers do away with his belt and work at the fastenings of his breeches.  Somewhere in the back of his head he hears words, he sees Aramis’s lips moving in the shapes of a language not their own, perfect lips that have powers against both women and men.

 “ _Fiar el mal de mí que lo poseo_.”

 It sounds like the end of a verse.  Porthos wonders how much of the poem he’s missed, if he’s missed any at all, if Aramis knows how distracting he is.  He reaches out his fingers to run through that mess of dark brown hair.  He feels his own lips twist up in a smile as Aramis smiles, and then those talented hands pull him free from the fabric that was starting to feel like too much between them.

 There were no words after that.  The music of a foreign tongue is replaced by soft sighs, gentle keening sounds in the back of Aramis’s throat as his lips slid over Porthos’s cock and back up, leaving a glistening trail of saliva in their wake.  Porthos could only groan, low and deep, cursing himself inwardly for letting himself fall under Aramis’s spell yet again but loving it all the same.  It stays like this for some minutes, intimate and easy, until Porthos bucks his hips up and Aramis makes a vague choking sound in the back of his throat.

 “Easy, dear Porthos,” he breathes, sliding his lips up Porthos’s erection from base to tip.  “Mind your wound, let me ease your tension.”

 When there is no argument, Aramis takes him again his mouth.  He reaches for Porthos’s hands and guides them to his head, enjoying the feeling of those calloused fingers tangling roughly in his hair.  The room around them echoes with moans and shaky breathes, and even though Porthos warns him that he’s on the brink of release, Aramis only takes him deeper into his mouth.  When Porthos hits his release, Aramis lets it spill against the back of his throat, though his eyes burn and the sensation makes him feel like he might gag.  Only when the other man has gone limp against the sofa does Aramis draw back.

 He’s as gentle and caring as a lover as he tucks Porthos back into his breeches and does him up again.  After he’s wiped his mouth and face clean, he leans over to brush his lips against Porthos’s forehead, and he gives him a smile, soft but full of adoration.   Porthos is certain, perhaps, he’s dreamt it all, until he feels the same kiss once more and realizes that he’s been dozing.

 “There’s a good man,” Aramis says.  He helps Porthos stand and walks him to his horse.  Athos is still absent, but there is little to be done.  He will find his own way to Paris when the time is right.  Aramis sets off on his horse, Bonnaire trotting between him and Porthos, but it is only a few miles before Porthos glances at Aramis.

 “Tell me, my friend, what is the end of that poem?”

 Aramis’s lips quirk up in a vague smile, his eyes never leaving the road.  “I suspect you’ll have to wait and see.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm glad that the put Santiago Cabrera's multilingual skills to a bit of use in this episode, and love the idea of Aramis speaking Spanish, so how could I resist. I'm also madly in love with Aramis/Porthos, so here's my first contribution to the fandom.
> 
> The poem is Soneto XII, by Garcilaso de la Vega. I don't speak Spanish so it was shamelessly copy/pasted, the translation of the lines spoken are:
> 
>  
> 
> _If trying to hold back this crazy, vain,_  
>  _impossible and frightening desire,_  
>  _and if to hide from danger so intense,_  
>  _convincing myself of what I can't see._  
>  _It does not help to see me as I am_  
>  [....]  
>  _to guard against the evil deep in me._  
> 


End file.
